


To Be a Sword

by Starcrossedsky



Series: Bladework [1]
Category: Tales of the Abyss
Genre: (it was written with goggles on), Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Political AU, only shippy if you've got goggles on really, precanon au
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-25
Updated: 2017-05-25
Packaged: 2018-11-04 15:00:51
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,864
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10993308
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Starcrossedsky/pseuds/Starcrossedsky
Summary: A sword does not get to choose to stop being a sword, but if it's lucky, it can choose its wielder.(Or: A precanon AU where Asch asks Ion for help *one time* and gets more of a person in return than he bargained for. And then they do politics together.)





	To Be a Sword

This has gone far enough.

The cathedral halls sound the same as they always do under your boots, the stone ringing with your hurried footsteps. Clergy look up at the sound - and then back down, quick as they can, scuttling out of your way. Even more so than in the barracks below, the people of the civilian side of the Order don't want to risk the wrath of Asch the Bloody.

(Perhaps because up here, unlike in the barracks, they don't realize Van holds your leash so tightly. No more, no more.)

You ignore them and continue to the set of glyphs that warp to far-distant places in the cathedral - specifically, the one leading up to the Fon Master's quarters. You have the password in case of emergencies, twice-over, as a Maestro of the church and the commander of Special Operations.

Two months shy of sixteen, you're the youngest to have held either position, let alone both. Even so, that pales in comparison to the age of the boy you're about to drop in on, even to those who don't know his true age.

(Sync the Tempest appeared six months ago, out of nowhere, his face covered even in private. At the same time, Arietta was removed from the Fon Master Guard, which was reduced from a full fighting force to a single girl even younger than Ion.

Van must really believe you stupid.)

You don't know what you hope to accomplish here. But you have to try to stop the madness somehow, and this is as high up as the chain of authority goes. Mohs' puppet, who is already canny enough to deceive the world, who, from the whispers no one knows you hear, is already testing out his strings.

Something in you galls, to have to trust a replica for help. But Van has been very thorough in making sure you have nowhere else to turn.

Under your arm is a folder of falsified heresy investigation against Chief of Staff Cantabile, the last obstacle between Van and complete control of the Oracle Knights. The very existence of the folder is as good as fifty-foot letters spelling out your orders to take her out. 

What Van plans after that, you don't know. But you have to at least try.

The warp carries you straight up, to an empty hallway with two doors, overlooking the lower floors of the cathedral. Part of you already plans how to make that single entrance meaningless, if you needed to assassinate the Fon Master. A poison gas lighter than air, rising to fill these upper halls, would do the trick. Or just smoke, if you felt like being conspicuous.

You frown at the empty spaces where guards stood less than a year ago, patches of stone smoothed away by their feet for centuries. No one to raise a warning.

It _irks_ you, how vulnerable Ion is, even if he is a replica. Mohs needs to keep better track of his toys, or someone is going to steal them away. At least for you, today, it means no witnesses.

You knock on the study door. There's a moment of almost startled silence, then a quiet voice calls, "Come in?"

You push open the door and do so. The room is almost painfully bare, stripped of any personal touches at all - of course, the replica would have no need of them, no preferences in decoration, though it surprises you that the original left nothing behind.

It reminds you of your own quarters, almost painfully so. Yours remain severe, not out of any preference, but out of fear that someone will see and find out. Your tastes still run rich, even after five years, but all you can allow yourself is a single extra pillow.

Contrary to popular belief, however, you do not show everything you feel on your face. There's little chance that Ion will detect the sudden surge of sympathy caught in your throat, especially since this Ion, you have never met.

He's trying to cover for it, you have to give him that. Even if he doesn't know your face, your hair alone will give away your name. The pause while he recalls it would go unnoticed if you weren't looking for it, expecting it. "Asch. What brings you here?"

It's clear that he's trying to imitate the aura the original Ion gave off, power and authority in spite of his age - you know the feeling. You got your command at fourteen; you had to work just as hard to be taken seriously. For being less than a year old, he's doing pretty well at it. 

But there's a gentle undercurrent to it, one that you never heard the few times you meet the original, and it somehow puts you at ease. In reality, you had no idea what you were going to say at this point - you just knew that you had to do something.

The effort of relaxing your shoulders, after you shut the door, is more than the effort of keeping them tense for so long. "You don't need to keep up the pretense, Fon Master. We both know this is our first meeting."

You remember Dist talking about programmed replicas and their lack of emotion, but this is the first time you see it in action - Ion barely shifts, his eyes going only slightly wide. And yet the aura is gone with the attempt at deception; instead, you're facing a kid armed with only a slight smile, instead of the power of the Fon Master. "I see. Did Van tell you?"

You shake your head, wondering how much he knows. If the amount Van has shared between his other pawns is any indication, nothing. "No. I figured it out myself."

Again, only the barest hint of shock in a neutral face, or what seems to pass as neutral for Ion, a smile that doesn't even approach his eyes. He gestures to the chair across his desk without inquiring any further.

You take the seat, putting the folder on the desk between you and gently pushing it at him. Ion takes it, over the few papers that are on his desk, and pages through it. Even that small smile fades as he nears the halfway point of the report. "These charges - "

"Are false," you interrupt. "They're a move by Van to remove his last political opponent in the Order. I want to see that they aren't brought to court."

Ion's head snaps up, the most emotion he's shown, though his face still has that blank affect. You make a note to watch his body language instead, not that it does you much good with a desk blocking most of your view. Still, you think you have his full attention, now.

"Don't you have the power to stop it on your own?" he asks, almost hesitant. "You're in charge of heresy investigation anyway."

You suck in a breath, trying to decide how to answer. "I can't go against Van so openly. Not without help."

A slow blink. But it seems Ion understands the idea of blackmail without you needing to give any further detail. "But then why come to me? My position is just as precarious, you realize."

You watch him for a moment, then shake your head. "Even if you are - what you are, you're still the Fon Master. To the rest of the world, you order Van."

Even if it was because of Van that you were made, you don't say. It hangs unspoken in the air as Ion closes the folder and sets it on the desk.

"I don't know," he says quietly, "what I could even do."

Slowly, you smile. It's a dangerous smile, one that people normally only see before you bring ruin to a battlefield. "Well," you say, "I can't help but notice a rather large gap in your personal staff..."

\----

Van is furious, an outcome that practically makes you chortle, even more so because he doesn't even consider that you had a hand in it. Or at least, no word of punishment filters down to you, not even through Sync and his inability to keep snide comments to himself.

Cantabile is safe, and left to continue her investigation of Van from the significantly safer position of Head of the Fon Master Guard, a position that is generally considered incorruptible. It also neatly accomplishes the secondary objective you didn't know you had, and gets at least a few people stuck on Ion's doors for the job of protecting him, though Anise Tatlin remains his sole bodyguard outside his quarters beyond Cantabile herself.

And, you suppose, yourself. Ion not only didn't breathe a word to Van or Mohs, he also seems to have not told Cantabile who her anonymous savior was, for which you are surprisingly grateful. The fewer people know a secret, the less chance it has of getting out.

It isn't enough to put a stop to Van's plans, but it is a start.

Some weeks later, a note is slipped under your door, unfamiliar handwriting requesting your presence at the Fon Master's chambers that evening. You blink at it in surprise but make the trip nonetheless, your expression softened enough that there's less of a scamper to get out of your way this time. The guards must know of the invitation, because they barely blink at you.

Ion is in his study, again, and though it's equally as bare of decoration, the entire aura is different. Rather than papers, the desk is covered in food, still hot from the kitchens that make personal meals for the higher clergy.

It isn't Daathic food. The combined scents of seafood and tropical fruit, the heavy spice of the stew - it's no royal banquet, but for a moment you might have been home, sneaking out with Guy to get street food from the port. The fried fish is on plates instead of skewers and the juice isn't iced against the summer heat, but it is so very Baticul that your knees go weak after two breaths.

At the same time, it puts an edge of panic into you, because there's no way Ion should know this. Your eyes lock onto him from across the room, where he's standing behind the desk. "How - " is all you can manage to choke out.

Ion smiles serenely. "I took a guess, from your hair and your accent. Don't worry, I don't think most people would notice."

Reassurance is not what you expected. You step forward slowly, coming to the chair on the other side of the desk. "Then, why?" You don't bother finishing the question; you know he knows what you mean.

"...I wanted to thank you," Ion says quietly. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to scare you. This is the first time I've tried to do something for someone, I didn't realize I was overstepping like that. I should have realized you were hiding for a reason."

You stare at him, unable to keep a shiver from going down your spine. You underestimated him. This is no pale imitation of a person - every bit of the genius you've seen from his original in politics, every bit of the tactical genius Sync already shows on the battlefield, is right here in front of you in this one, too.

You wonder if anyone else has been thoughtlessly laid open like this. With how controlled contact with Ion still is, you doubt it. It's an unsettling feeling. "Thank me for what?"

Another of those tiny shifts in expression and a more revealing shift in body language - Ion almost squirms in his seat. "For trusting me. And, for believing that I could do something on my own."

The confession startles you - but then you think about it, and it makes sense. Van and Mohs only see a puppet, after all. (What's surprising you, really, is that Ion even cares.)

You huff slightly. "Don't mention it. It helped me too, after all. It certainly wasn't worth... this."

Ion smiles - or rather, his expression doesn't change, but there's some life in his eyes, now. "It is to me."

You don't have an answer for that. Inhaling deeply, you force yourself to relax. "I won't argue, then. It smells wonderful." It still smells like it could make you cry, if you weren't so good at controlling your tears.

You have no idea how you're going to manage to eat anything, but you start plating it up anyway, only barely noticing the way Ion watches your hands when you shuck off your gloves to peel a mango. It's on the edge of too ripe and juice coats your fingers and chin, but you can't bring yourself to care. It tastes like home, like summer, like thunderstorms breaking the heat on your birthday.

Ion, who of course has no idea how to peel the fruit, is instead working on a chunk of fish with delicate manners suited for any royal table. It makes you a little self-conscious about the gusto you used to make the mango disappear. You peel an orange a little more delicately, piling the peel chunks on one side of your plate and wishing Ion had known to request an extra one for scraps. Oh well.

You put about half the orange slices on the edge of Ion's plate before licking your fingers clean. He hesitates before taking one with the very tips of his fingers, keeping the wide sleeve of his robe well clear. "Thank you."

You shake your head at him again. "Don't worry about it." With that, you start on the fish, and the rest of the meal passes in relative silence. The chill of Daath is enough that you wind up being glad that the juice wasn't iced after all.

Ion seems a little surprised at how eageryou are to take care of the cleanup, though he's quick to help once he realizes what you're doing, piling the fruit peels all onto one plate. A leftover mango is going back to the barracks with you to eat later. 

"Thank you again," Ion starts to say as you go to leave. You pause in the doorway, head tilted to listen. "For knowing, and still not... treating me any differently."

You shake your head, hiding your confused expression behind the fall of your hair, and gently close the door.

\----

Weeks pass, again. Before you know it, it's another birthday that no one acknowledges. On paper in the records, your birthday is in Efreet-redecan, you can't and don't want to remember which day - the day that "Asch" was born, the day you lost everything.

But that is not today. Today you are sixteen in truth, even if only you and Van know it, you and Van and everyone back in Baticul giving your replica a celebration.

No celebration here, for you. No gifts, no toasts to your health and no smiling family. Not even Van, who is where you should be, where it's proper for your replica's swordmaster to be on such an auspicious day. You, in contrast, come home from a mission at an obscene hour of the morning, sleep, and wake in the early afternoon to paperwork and reports. The idea of it makes you sick.

So you go elsewhere, aimlessly, past clergy preparing for the New Year. Another trip made around the sun successfully. Another trip closer to destruction.

You find yourself standing on the glyph to Ion's quarters, and without questioning it, you whisper the password and go on through. There are guards on either side of the arrival point upstairs, Cantabile's men rather than the teenage girls the original Ion favored. It's a change for the better, even if it's made Arietta more than a little temperamental.

They are very much surprised to see you; it shows in the subtle jerk to tighter attention, straighter backs, weapons held at the ready. You let all the displeasure and resentment you're feeling show on your face, soak it into the very air around you.

They're good men. Neither so much as flinches. If you were in a better mood, you'd make a note to quietly slip an approving opinion into someone else's assessment of their fitness for duty (never your own, not from Special Operations; the investigation of heresy allows you no room for favoritism). Unfortunately, you are not in that mood, and so the directness of your gaze sends one to the study with a murmured, "I'll announce you, sir," without you actually having to say anything.

It's a good thing, because if you had to open your mouth and explain yourself to these people, you don't think you would manage. The study door opens again, the guard returning to his post even as Ion's gentle voice calls, "Come in."

You stalk past the guard with a slight flutter of your uniform, shutting the door behind you with too much force to be quiet but not enough for a slam. Ion is watching you over his desk, this time completely empty of paperwork. It occurs to you that there should surely be something, this close to the New Year celebrations, and then you realize that for all that he's the center of attention, Ion probably has no hand in planning the event. Mohs is responsible for all such things, now.

It occurs to you, also, that this will be the first New Year that the Ion before you actually gets to see. The thought adds another level of strangeness to the entire situation. Here you are, seeking anything to think about other than the fact that it's your birthday and _no one cares_ , and you wind up in the company of someone who hasn't even _had_ one yet.

You circle around to the chair in front of the desk and slump into it, closing your eyes. Somehow you can't bear to look at Ion's expression of gentle concern, not knowing that it's probably one that's been trained into him since he was made. Even if it's probably genuine ( _for you_ ), you've never dealt well with such overt displays of concern. 

"Is everything alright?" His tone is concerned, too, but it's easier to deal with when you don't have to look at him. You hesitate. It _isn't_ , but nothing has been alright for you for a very long time, and admitting it is almost a step further than you're willing to go.

Instead, you throw a question back at him, one that's been on your mind a great deal these last few weeks - "How much of me - of my history, _did_ you figure out?" You catch yourself on the odd phrasing at the last moment. 

Really, you'd like an answer to both questions. But at the same time, you're not sure you're ready to know just how much Ion has figured you out. You feel vulnerable under his gaze as it is, and you don't like it.

"Ah," Ion begins, and you crack your eyes open to watch his minimal expressions. "Not all that much, really. You're from Baticul, or at least close to it; at least proximally related to the crown, from your hair, though not of any acknowledged relation. You entered the officer's school in the Oracle Knights, followed by the Order seminary, after a private apprenticeship with Van." He hesitates for a moment, then adds, "And you have some degree of knowledge of fomicry. I'm afraid that's not much to go on, all told."

It's not, but it's enough, enough that you think he'll get it when you put a few more pieces in place for him. You take a deep breath to try to control the tone of your voice. "And where is Van right now?"

Ion's expression is briefly puzzled. "He's in Baticul, attending to the birthday celebration of the royal heir he trains in the sword there..." You can see the exact moment when he begins to figure it out. It's fairly well known that Van is the one who taught you the blade; it's even in your personnel record, which you assume Ion must have read by now. 

You just nod. "Luke fon Fabre. Who lost all his memories after a traumatic kidnapping incident that Van rescued him from." You know how bitter your voice must be.

His eyes go wide, and there's something that might almost be an expression of horror, on someone else. " _Lorelei_ , Luke, I'm sorry. I don't know what to say."

You can't control the flinch at your birth name. It's the first time anyone has called you that in upwards of five years; even Van uses "Asch" now, unless he wants to remind you of your fate. Your voice sounds painfully young when you can manage to open your mouth. "Please don't call me that."

Ion's gaze is on you as he nods, his expression unsure. "Of course. I'm sorry. But... why tell me?"

There's a lot of potential answers to that. You consider for a moment, then go with the most honest. "I don't know."

Because you knowhis secret, and it's only fair. Because you had to tell someone, or you feel like you would explode, collapse, under the weight of never being _you_. Because he's the first person that's been _safe_ for you to talk to since... Since ever, maybe, you think, shoving thoughts of Guy (of _Gardios_ ) aside. 

Because he's as trapped as you are, except that he doesn't know what freedom is like to long for it. 

"Obviously," you say, when he doesn't respond after a moment, "Van doesn't need to know I told you."

His eyes do that subtle shift again, and then he nods. "I understand."

And the crazy thing is, you really believe he does. Maybe not everything, but as much as is within his experience - as much as he can understand, of how these things work for people with parents and families and a history and names that didn't belong to someone else first.

You close your eyes again. You shouldn't trust him so easily, and yet, you feel lighter than you have in ages. Someone knows, someone that you can trust, sort of, someone that _you_ chose to tell.

The hold Van has over you, with Score and name, seems a little less, here in the safety of the Fon Master's study. The thought brings with it the frightening realization that you can't come back. Van takes away all that is safe.

(Van wants to be the only thing that you find safe. Van, yet again, thinks you are an idiot. You already know, knew ten years old and screaming, how unsafe he is.)

"But why?" Ion asks quietly of the air, not really directed at you. "Why would he go through all that trouble? If he wanted control of the royal family, wouldn't it be easier to just leave you where you were?"

You feel your throat tighten. He doesn't know. Of course. If he's simply to be a puppet Fon Master, there's no _need_ for him to know. Intellectually, you understand. Emotionally, something inside you simmers and twists.

You don't want to be the one to tell him. So you frame it as a question, leave him to discover the worst of it for himself. "They haven't let you look at the Closed Score, have they?"

Ion shakes his head. "As you can see," he says, gesturing to his empty desk, "Mohs and Van take care of most of the actual work of the Fon Master. I make public appearances and sign documents."

You nod. "Well, they can't very well keep you from reading it at the New Year."

Ion's smile is... different. Barely so, you wouldn't notice if you didn't watch it so closely. "I suppose they can't, at that. But..."

He sighs. "I don't know if I can actually do it. I'm not the real Fon Master, after all."

The words sit between you uncomfortably for a moment, like a bed of nails that one of you has to walk across. Well, perhaps it doesn't seem that way for him; if anything, Ion looks turned in on himself, his eyes not on you for the first time that you can remember. But for you - 

The nails are made of your own beliefs, really, so it's your job to clean them up. "Maybe they didn't intend for you to be," you start, unsure of your words, unsure of yourself, "But that doesn't change that they gave you the power. You can make _yourself_ real."

Ion looks up at that, and you have to wonder how anyone can mistake his usual expression for a _smile_ , when the real thing is so bright and warm.

\----

You don't intend to go back. For months, you don't. Ion seems to have found some new confidence in your words, anyway.

(You can't avoid looking at him during the New Year's ceremonies; as one of the Order's Maestros, you're right up there with him, though tucked halfway into shadows at Van's right hand. Once, he catches you looking, and his smile becomes just that little bit more real again, enough that you almost smile back.)

There are whispers; there are always whispers, but these have some meat to them. The Fon Master spends a great deal of time in the library. The Fon Master left to greet pilgrims today. The Fon Master had a disagreement with the Grand Maestro over doctrine.

(The Fon Master fell ill again. The Fon Master hasn't recovered well. The Fon Master overexerted himself. All the rumors make you worry, but those most of all.)

Ion is stretching his wings, and you hope he won't find the bars snapping shut and breaking them the way you did. He's incredibly cautious, though, and it helps that it seems Mohs is intentionally letting the more progressive elements of the Order think he's one of theirs.

Makes it easy, you suppose. Mohs' faction has always been deeply conservative regarding the Score; letting Ion lead the other side around keeps both sides, theoretically, under control. Or at least, it does so long as Ion doesn't slip his leash.

The problem with exposing Ion to so many people who believe just slightly differently about the Score is that Ion listens, and Ion thinks. Neither of those, you're sure, was a consideration in Mohs' grand idea. He'll have a renegade Fon Master on his hands before he knows it.

Which, you suppose, is the purpose of Anise Tatlin.

The girl is developing rapidly as a fonist and has a respectable degree of ability for the youngest member of Ion's guard. The issue is that she's the only one that goes around the Cathedral with Ion, and the only one that Cantabile didn't handpick from her own loyalists. Mohs chose her, and while anyone else might have dismissed her as being too young for something as nefarious as spying...

Well, she's hardly as young as her supposed charge, and Ion is doing quite well for himself at keeping his devious side hidden. Even you forget about it, from time to time.

So, you investigate. It's almost refreshing, being able to put that training to use, even if you have no intention of making any heresy accusations. Even if you found evidence of such (which you can't imagine, from the way the girl hangs on doctrine), well, it'd be a little hypocritical of you.

What you find is pretty damning evidence of blackmail. Parents in debt, Mohs paying off the bare minimums so that they don't go to prison - damn near everything Anise earns must go to that, too, and paying off her officer's schooling. ...Which was under Mohs' recommendation, and damn if she didn't start younger than you on top of it. You'd thought Van was pushing it, having you enroll at twelve; Anise was barely ten.

Of course, she'd have to be. She's only twelve now, after all, and she's been in Ion's guard a year already. It almost makes you sick. She's just a kid, she shouldn't have to be supporting her parents and getting blackmailed for it.

(You're all just kids. You know it's just as true for you. You're sixteen, you shouldn't be head of an inquisition division. It doesn't change anything to say it's unfair, so you do the best you can.)

Assembling a paper trail isn't difficult. A few copied pay records, demands for payment swiped from where Anise's mother tries to hide them from her daughter... You know where this file needs to go, and that doesn't make it easier. You're sure Ion knows you've avoided his study since the New Year.

Even if he probably gets why. That just makes it harder, really. It's not safe for you two to associate too closely. You'd give the file to Cantabile instead, but... Anise was the first person to really be close to the replica Ion. He's the one who gets to decide what to do about her. 

The guards don't flinch when you appear this time, the folder of your evidence under your arm. It's obvious that you're here on business. You made sure to come up at a time when you know that Anise is occupied with her parents.

Unfortunately, you didn't think to check for anyone else. Just as you turn towards the study, Mohs sweeps out of it, attempting and failing grace with his bulk wrapped in Grand Maestro robes. 

There's no point pretending that you don't see him. Ion follows him out, standing in his doorway; you can only hear his soft footsteps, the size of Mohs hiding the boy entirely. You back the swallow disgust the sight of him inspires in you and give him a simple nod. "Heresy reports," you say.

Mohs smiles; only years of training keep it from making you shudder. He extends a hand for the folder under your arm. "I'll take them. The Fon Master had another bout of illness; I'm handling anything strenuous for the time being."

You step away, one hand on the folder, because otherwise it will be on your sword. "They're for the Fon Master's eyes only," you say. From this angle, you can actually see Ion, his expression guarded. You can believe that his illness is acting up; even as pale as he normally is, he looks drained and worse.

Mohs looks like he's about to snap an order at you, but before he can, Ion's voice interrupts. "Thank you, Commander Asch. I'll take them in my study, if you don't mind?"

Perfectly gentle, and yet there's no way Mohs can argue it, not in front of the guards and whoever might be stopped on the floor below to listen. The man's fat hand falls away, tucking into his robes. "Be on your way, then," he says to you, his disgust for the interaction evident.

It's all you can do to not smirk at him, to keep your face carefully trained in its constant scowl. Instead, you do something reckless. "Not even the Grand Maestro is above suspicion of heresy," you say, with a slight bow. "I'm sure you understand."

Leaving him to fume on the pathway, you follow Ion into the study and shut the door. There you allow yourself to breathe, even to crack a grin, though Ion is shaking his head at you slightly.

"I'd heard you had a reckless streak," he says, part of his weight resting on the desk as he circles around it, "but I never thought you would go _that_ far. That's not actually a heresy report, is it?"

"The first heresy report I'd have to bring you would be my own," you say honestly, still cheerful as you slide the file across the desk and sit down. "But I couldn't very well give Mohs the proof that I've been following _his_ mole. The rest was just a bonus."

Ion sighs and doesn't answer, instead opening the file and starting with the summary of the report in your hand, still damn near scribe quality even after six years away from royal tutors. His half-amused expression turns quickly into a frown, and he flicks through the rest without much interest. "Asch?"

It dampens your mood, too. "Yes?"

"Why can't you ever bring me good news?" It's the first time you've ever heard him utter something like a complaint; it's startling. He rubs at one temple briefly as he closes the file. "Anise, of all people..."

The pain in his voice is lacking where it should be and obvious all at once, because his usual subtle expressiveness has gone flat. You suppose there's not a lot in his life that would give him experience with losing trust in someone. 

"I'm sorry," you say, quietly. "I wish I ever had good news to bring."

"I suppose I can't blame you for that." Ion closes his eyes. "I... I don't want to send her away."

The answer doesn't surprise you. She's his first friend, really, and the memory of Guy's smile is there every time you blink. You understand. "But you can't have her spilling everything to Mohs, either."

"Can't I? We know who she is. We can keep an eye on her, control what she knows." You blink at him. Right, he's a damned devil with politics, too. "I know that's not a normal reaction. But I don't know what I'm feeling right now."

"You don't have to justify it," you say quickly. "It's smart. Better than I would manage." You don't think you could handle another betrayal like that, even if you understand why, and Anise's reasons are clean-cut.

(You understand Guy. You don't know if you can forgive him, but you understand. You don't think you would have done any differently.)

"You're not exactly known for keeping a cool head," Ion agrees, sounding a little amused, but mostly tired. "I just... I suppose I want to know if any of it was real."

It's like a punch in the stomach, because oh, do you know that feeling. "She's the only one who could tell you that."

"And I can't ask. Not if we're going through with the plan to let her feed Mohs what we want." Ion looks back up at you. "It is 'we,' isn't it? That's certainly the impression Mohs is going to take from all this."

The question stops you - and you suppose he's not wrong. "As far as Mohs or Van knows, I don't know there's anything strange going on about you," you say. Or Sync, or Arietta, or any of the people connected to Ion. "It's not unreasonable for me to have noticed and started quietly supporting a more progressive Order than the one Mohs envisions." Your mind whirrs as you fit the cover story into place. "Van knows what an idealist I was, before everything. It won't be hard to play that card in a way he can believe."

( _Some day, when we're grown up, let's change this country._ Sorry, Natalia, but you kind of have the entire world to worry about, now.)

Ion is watching you, waiting for you to stop being so oblique. You smirk at him, and extend your hand across the table.

(You hate pinky promises. They remind you of the past. A handshake is newer, better.)

"So yes, it's 'we.'"

\----

The next few weeks are a careful dance to establish that exact cover story, at least where Van and people who report to Van can see it. You don't return to the study, but you make it clear in your spare time that you're doing some investigation for Ion, ducking in and out of the libraries at hours when other people will actually be there.

It's not entirely untrue. What you're researching is for you, and for him, little loopholes and snags of history that you can turn into weapons and shields when the time comes. 

The original Ion's birthday, in the late, wet Daathic spring, comes and goes. You attend the small, formal banquet of the higher officers and clergy, from which Sync is "mysteriously" absent (Van goes to great lengths to keep anyone from seeing him and Ion in the same room, now that you care to notice). You watch Anise. You run interference to keep Arietta from her throat. You don't look at Ion at all. You toast his health, maybe the only one in the room who understands and means it.

You lie, and you lie, and you lie some more, and rather than building a prison with them, the way Van did, you dig tunnels, escape routes, secret passages with your lies, little self-expressions. It's a challenge; it's almost fun, or would be if there wasn't so much pressure. 

The day after his "birthday," you slip Ion the title and location of half a dozen books that further his cause. The reply, slipped under your door two nights later by who-knows-which servant, is two numbers.

The first corresponds to a chunk of the formal code of the Order, the rules and regulations that are kept under wraps almost as closely as the Closed Score. You don't recognize the serial offhand, but the first part of it indicates that it's Oracle-Knights-related. You make a mental note of it for later.

The second is a date, in early summer of last year. You think back, and... Yes, the timing would be about right, wouldn't it? The downturn in the original's health, Arietta's transfer... The date of birth in Sync's records is a match, too. Van isn't particularly imaginative unless he has to be.

Hopefully, you'll be here, instead of halfway around the world on some forsaken mission. One of those happens before you get the chance to look up the protocols Ion pointed you at; a suspected safehouse for heretics, which here means Hod survivors or anyone else who doesn't want to keep faith with the Score anymore. Your orders are the standard.

(Kill everyone present, for the crime of defying fate.)

The place is empty when you get there, a waste of your time except that it gives you somewhere to be that isn't _Daath_ and a lead to follow. Whoever spirited this family away (Hod survivors; you can tell by the spices in the kitchen and the cut of the children's clothes) must have left some kind of trail.

You follow it for two weeks, alone, until you can pass it off as having lost them, secretly grateful for no more children's blood on your hands.

(These are the people that Van should be helping, not trying to kill. If he really cared about his homeland, he shouldn't be throwing its people to the wolves to distract from his own heritage.)

You take your time getting back to Daath, too, because whenever you do, it's like you never left. Except this time, something is different, rumors flying around, and when you seek out the subject of them - 

She looks like her brother, this Tear Grants, save for being Yulia City pale when even a week a month in Baticul leaves Van Hod-dark and more. There is something alike in the cheekbones, and nothing alike in the eyes.

You move on before she notices you looking. You wonder how long it's been since Van last spoke to her, visited her. 

(You didn't even know he had a sister, much less one your age.)

Van himself is conspicuously absent, almost as though he's avoiding her. She's to be assigned to the Intelligence Division, on recommendation from Cantabile, almost as though _she's_ avoiding _him_. It is all very interesting, but unfortunately you can't allow yourself to get distracted by the sideshow of House Fende's family problems. 

So, silently, you thank her for the distraction she provides, and go look up the section of code Ion pointed you towards. The volumes are heavy, gathering dust, like so much of the Order's secret records, but you can tell which volume without even looking at the numbers by the layers disturbed by Ion himself.

When you page it open and flip to the relevant page, you find yourself smirking. Special Operations was originally intended to only report to the Fon Master, operating outside the rest of the Oracle Knights - a sword to counterpart the Guardians' shield.

It's just politics, something to cover your ass if you get questioned too much by Mohs or his lackeys, but you can't help but close your eyes and think _Sure, I can do that._

When did your loyalties shift so much? When did you come to trust him? Thinking about it paralyzes something inside you, and you slam the book of Order code shut with enough force to send a cloud of dust up from its pages.

That night, you lie awake, staring at the ceiling and thinking of all the oaths you swore at your investiture that you never meant a word of. You lie awake, thinking about the world Van told you needed you, and how it doesn't really seem to need you in it at all. Wondering what kind of world Van is trying to make, and comparing it to the kind of world that Ion might make, if someone let him.

You fall asleep, certain in the decision of which world you would rather serve, even if you can never be a part of it.

\----

But some part of has been burned too deeply to decide without being _sure_ and morning, as it often does, makes you less confident. The light of day makes leaving any openings for _trust_ more frightening.

(It should be the other way around, shouldn't it? Well, your world never did sort itself out from when Van overturned it, and you're a thing of shadows and dark places now.)

You put it to the back of your mind, because it feels somehow wrong to go to him with just _questions_. You intend to have something to report, so you get to work. 

It's not hard to figure that tensions are rising between Kimlasca and Malkuth; any fool with eyes can see it, even from here in Daath. Mohs wants the war, and he's structuring a perfect breeding ground for it.

And by all reports, he's got your uncle firmly in his pocket, along with most of the rest of the nobles. You knew it, knew Kimlasca was in the Order's pocket because just enough of the Score had been revealed to arrange your birth in the first place, but it doesn't mean that you can look at the reports without being disgusted at how spineless the family you once admired has grown.

You draft a timeline of the border incidents that you think Mohs had a hand in, a report on the manipulations of the Kimlascan court, and a similar, if sparser, report on Malkuth and who is taking Mohs' money there. Malkuth's court is fairly traditional, but the Emperor himself is not; it makes him unpopular with the nobility, which is no doubt how Mohs got his claws in. Peony's efforts at public works are on par with Natalia's; you may not know him personally, but you can trust he wants the best for his people.

Then you whirl into the officers' kitchen and take it over for a couple hours, scaring its usual occupants back to the safety to the cafeteria. The shrimp, scallops, and tiny clams you had to put in a special order for are still securely in their packing of ice and chill fonstones. You dump the whole thing in one of the sinks to defrost while you throw together a brief butter biscuit to go with it. 

It's a pity everyone cleared out when you walked in, because you almost wish for a private you could order to help you shell shrimp. Oh well. It won't be fancy by any standard, but you think giving Ion the chance to try something different is more important. And he seems like seafood well enough, from the times you've seen him eat fish and those awful, rubbery fried clams they serve here in Daath.

The peppery stew you produce is arguably a chowder and mostly constructed from memory, but the spices are close enough and the shellfish is fresh and that's really what's important. The recipe is Pere's, and it entered your life with Guy and soon became a staple of the household when you were sick enough to need that kind of thing. Ion's health hasn't been good this week; you hope it helps.

(You ignore how strange it is that you care about that.)

You throw the biscuits in a basket, wrapped in cloth to keep them warm, and pack the rest onto what winds up being a very heavy tray, the file with your report securely hidden under bowls and napkins. The smell of it draws a larger number of eyes to you than usual as you go through the hallways, but it's technically three days before Ion's true date of birth, so even if you pass Van or Mohs (or Sync, for that matter), there's no reason for them to be suspicious. If anyone asks, the clams are seasonal.

(Back home it's winter, or at least as close as Baticul ever gets to winter, foggy mornings into bright days not much cooler than here in Daath at the peak of summer.)

Luckily, the only person of import you pass is Anise Tatlin, who stares at your tray longingly as you pass each other, you going up to Ion's rooms, her coming from them. Of all things, she pouts and whispers, "Save some for me next time," before bolting off in the direction of the cafeteria.

Seeing as it's the first time either of you have ever spoken to each other, you can't help but stare after her for a moment, bewildered, before you take the path of the glyph upwards. 

The guards are startled by your arrival, too, though one of them you recognize from previous visits (the armor hides a lot, but there's only a few grown men in the Order shorter than you). They salute, and then the short one says, "The Fon Master is in his chambers, sir."

It's probably intended to ward you off, but you just frown at him. "Is he awake?" You know that Ion's usual reaction to illness is to sleep it off, but it would still be disappointing.

"I believe so, sir, but I can check if you wish." Unable to wave him in that direction with your hands full, you opt for nodding and watch him scurry through the study door. He returns and politely fetches first the study door, and then the inner door to Ion's bedchamber for you.

Ion's bedroom is almost as bare as his study, and incredibly empty. There's a vase of local flowers and a water tray on the dresser, a bed stand with a book, and a rug on the floor, but otherwise the only furnishings are a standing lamp and the bed, which is only not small because of Ion's own size. Even with the lamp set low, the chamber is almost unbearably white. Two small doors are set on opposite walls, no doubt leading to the bathroom and a closet.

Ion himself is sitting up in bed, tired but cheerful, wearing a polite white dressing gown instead of his usual short robes. "It's good to see you," he says. "That smells wonderful."

"Half the cathedral seemed to think so, too," you say, setting the tray down on the dresser for the time being. Thankfully, it's the type with legs, so with a little rearranging you should be able to put it in Ion's lap over the blankets without having to worry about it spilling. "I saw Sergeant Tatlin on her way out, I think she might have tried to swipe a bowl if anyone else was carrying it."

Ion laughs, quietly but fondly. "That does sound like her."

"She spoke to me like we were friends," you say, not certain how else to phrase it, as you rearrange things on the tray and bring it over. You put your own bowl on the nightstand; you can go get a chair from the study to eat. 

Ion just nods. "She does that with most everyone, I'm afraid. I haven't said anything to her, but she probably guessed we were on friendly terms if she saw you headed this way."

You nod. It's a fair enough assessment; you're not exactly known for bringing food to people in the cathedral. "Hopefully she doesn't run her mouth too much," you say, and turn to fetch your chair so you don't have to see him frown.

When you return, you can see him fingering the folder under the edge of his bowl, but you both ignore it for the time being, working through the meal with perhaps a few more satisfied sounds than is polite. (At least on your part; it's a form of self-expression that Ion doesn't seem to have a handle on, yet, probably for the better for his table manners.) It's an easy silence until you finish, and you're using a biscuit to clean up the last bits coating your bowl, when Ion slides the folder out. 

"I should have known you had an ulterior motive," he says, tired but amused.

"My ulterior motive was your birthday in three days," you huff. "I thought coming on the day itself might be too noticeable."

"You're probably the only one who remembers," Ion says, with a quiet, almost sad sigh. He keeps his hands folded over the papers, but lets you take the tray. "I'm still not going to like it, am I?"

"Probably not," you agree, taking your seat again. 

"At least you're predictable," Ion mutters, opening to the first page. His attention doesn't flicker to you at all while he's reading. You wait, as patiently as you wait for anything. 

Finally, he looks up. "You don't believe in following the Score at all, do you?" he asks, sounding a bit incredulous. "You alluded to being something of a heretic before, but this..."

"I'll do anything in my power to stop this war," you say. You find your hands tightening on the hem of your tunic. "Even if it had nothing to do with me, I would still try."

And the both of you know that the war that's coming could never have nothing to do with you. 

Ion is silent. For a moment, you're afraid - afraid that you've misjudged him, after all these months, that the next words out of his mouth are going to be as heartless as anything you've heard from Sync. That everything you used to think about replicas was true and that he doesn't have a heart, or a sense of right and wrong, or any of the other things that make you human.

What he says isn't any of that. "I wish I had that kind of strength."

"...What?" It's the last thing you expected. You are, for a moment, without a doubt, floored.

Ion looks up from under his bangs and smiles at you. "The way you act... You never have any doubt about what to do, what you believe. You know exactly who you are. It's amazing. I can't even imagine what it's like."

Every time you think you understand him, he twists it around and makes you feel like a fool. "Don't be stupid," you say, looking away. "I don't have anything like that figured out, really. I do what I think is right, and the rest is a guess."

He's the incredible one. As politically adept as he is at a year old, you're terrified of what he'll be like at five, or ten, when he has enough world experience that he doesn't need things pointed out anymore. You just have no idea how to begin expressing that.

Ion hums in response, closing his eyes and seeming to consider your words. "But what you think is right is different from other people. That's the part I can't understand. How do you determine that for yourself?"

It's not a question you're expecting - it's not even one that you think you're a good person to answer, but you're probably the only person Ion has to ask, so you try to get your thoughts in order, anyway.

"I don't want people to suffer. The fact that people are suffering now - that they will suffer even more because of this war - is more important to me than whatever 'unprecedented prosperity' the Score offers." You finger the hem of your tunic. "If you ask me, I think we could have that prosperity now, without a war, if we started taking care of the poor and needy instead of looking at the Score so much."

Ion sighs. "You don't have a patient bone in your body, do you?"

"I have patience when I _know_ something is going to happen," you say. "But for all that the Order keeps promising prosperity - it's been two thousand years, and we're only at the end of the Sixth Fonstone. The Seventh is still lost. How many more lifetimes do you think are written on it?"

"I suppose that's fair," Ion says quietly. "Not exactly faithful, but fair."

"I never claimed to have faith," you point out, letting the silence settle. "I can't tell you what to think. I can tell you what I think, and why, but the decision has to be yours."

"Because I'm the Fon Master." His voice is tired.

You shake your head. "Because you're a person, and everyone has to figure out what they believe eventually."

Ion looks at you for a moment, then glances away, smiling. "I should stop being surprised when you say such things. You're the only person who knows and still sees me as a person instead of a replica."

You feel your cheeks color. "Not at first," you admit, slowly. "But even I can't ignore what's in front of my face."

You were ready to hate him. You just decided to take a risk on what was _right_ , and everything else - 

Everything after has been a pleasant surprise.

"I can only hope that there will be other people willing to think that way," Ion says. He seems to realize that the folder is still spread open across his lap, and flips the cover closed. "We can't take care of this ourselves. Even if we stopped Mohs' border incidents, tensions are too high. Malkuth's more likely to want to try to make peace, right?"

It's a quite sudden change of subject, but you don't really mind. This kind of talk is easier, and it makes you feel like you're doing something. "Probably. Ingobert and at least some of his court know parts of the Closed Score, thanks to Mohs." Your fingers clench over the hem of your tunic. "Unprecedented prosperity for the small cost of a war and a child."

Ion's eyes flash with sympathy, and his hand moves almost as though to reach for yours before he stills it. "Then we'll have to contact Emperor Peony directly. What's the best method, do you think?"

"Secretly," you say without hesitation. "It'll look better with peace talks with Kimlasca if it seems to be his idea, rather than us propositioning him to sue for peace."

Ion hums thoughtfully. "You think it would make that big of a difference?"

"Maybe not to Uncle," you admit, and the acknowledgement of your family history feels almost foreign. "But he's unusually conservative for a Kimlascan ruler in the modern era, and he's already connected to Mohs. If we're too overt, the rest of the nobility will think the Order is interfering in the monarchy, and they won't like it."

"I suppose you probably know best on that front," Ion says. "All right. Secret messages it is, then. Do you have any idea how to deliver one?"

"Well," you begin, vague ideas rolling around in your head. "That depends on if we can get the new darling of the Intelligence Division onboard."

Ion raises his eyebrows, but stays quiet as you begin to explain.

\----

You rarely use your own office. The desk is kept free of dust by someone in the lower ranks of the clergy, but they don't do a particularly thorough job. It's good enough, though, for you to call Tear Grants to your office and wait. The folder you gave to Ion is in front of you, though sans your recommendation for action.

She shows up right on time, looking like a coiled spring. You do your best to give off a relaxed aura, but you're not exactly practiced at it, and it doesn't seem to be doing any good. "Commander Asch," she says, stepping inside and standing at attention just beside the door. 

"At ease, Sergeant," you say, and though she drops out of formal attention, she's no less tense. "And shut the door."

A brief nod, and then the room is as close to private as you can make it. "May I ask why I was called here?"

Her accent is just off enough, like your own, to reveal that she's not from Daath, though you doubt anyone would be able to place it, unlike your prominently Kimlascan speech. There's next to nothing of Yulia City in Van's voice, but that has to be what you're hearing; it's certainly not Hod, since she would have been at most a newborn at the Fall.

She's probably expecting at least some kind of interrogation. There's not a lot of other reasons for someone to get called to your office, aside from heresy investigations. "That depends," you say. "Are you willing to swear that nothing of this discussion leaves this room?"

It's the first test; she clearly recognizes it, too. Her fingers twitch towards the throwing knives strapped to her leg as she considers her response. "...I'll swear. For now. Is this something to do with my brother?"

You sigh, but that's probably as good as you're going to get. "Only tangentially." As a small measure of trust, you let your own native accent slip out - you can see the surprise in her expression, though she hides it well enough. It's just that you're used to dealing with Ion, really. "If anything, he is one of the people I _least_ want to find out about this meeting."

Her brows furrow. "Aren't you loyal to him?"

You can't help it. You snort. "Only as far as I need to be to keep up appearances. I'm loyal to Ion, and to protecting the people of Auldrant. No one and nothing else."

It's so simple, when you say it that way. It makes all the big, complicated _mess_ of your relationship with Van, with your family, go away, for at least a little while. She doesn't need to know that, not for the purposes of this mission.

You can see the wheels turning in her head, noticing all the things you didn't say. "But not to the Order," she says, hesitatingly. "Not to the Score."

"Not particularly," you say, glibly not revealing the depths to which your lack of loyalty to those particular institutions extends. 

"Why? I don't understand."

You sigh, and stand up from your desk. "You're from Yulia City, so I can't expect you to understand - they keep loyalty to the Score above all else." She nods, even though you didn't ask a question. You nod in return. "Well, welcome to the Outer Lands. You'll find very few people who think that way here."

"The Grand Maestro does," she says. "So does the Fon Master."

"I'll give you Mohs," you say, unable to keep the disgust out of your voice. "But I would wager I know Ion a bit better than you do."

There's a different kind of tension in her now - she's shaken. You've upset a pillar of her world, both by your implications about Ion and your being a Maestro yourself. You turn away, pretending to study the shelf of records behind your desk, to let her gather herself.

(Like master, like student. The thought makes you need to wash off the kind of dirt that won't come clean with any amount of scrubbing.)

"But why? It's the path to prosperity - "

You're glad your face is averted, because she can't see how it twists at the words, the mantra of doctrine that someone left in her bones where it doesn't belong. You know your voice is made of knives, anyway, can see how she'll flinch without looking. "Prosperity for who? The people of Hod?"

"...That's a low blow," she says quietly, and you hear one of her heels tap on the floor as she shifts her weight. 

"Low blows win," you answer, turning back to her. She has her hands folded in front of her, now, looking at the floor. "And some things, Sergeant _Fende_ , I can't afford to lose on. Auldrant can't afford another Hod War."

Not another war, but more importantly, not another Fall. 

She gapes at you for a moment, and then catches herself, snatching up some remains of a neutral expression. "I don't know where you heard that name - "

"Does it really _matter_?" you interrupt, starting to get annoyed. Doublespeak and all that dancing around can only go on so long. At least you're able to keep yourself from showing any nervous tics. "I know. Unlike everyone else in this damn _Order_ , I have no interest in using it for blackmail."

"Just to prove your rhetorical points," she snaps back. It almost makes you feel better. If she's got some snap to her, then she'll recover from the shock.

( _Then she'll still be useful_ , adds a part of your mind that you don't like.)

You shrug. "I already told you I can't afford to lose. Don't act so surprised."

She doesn't seem to have any reply to that. Good. "If it's not to blackmail me, and it's not about my brother, then why am I here?" Oh, she's also getting impatient. Even better. You can get right to the point.

"Do you know your family's fonic hymns?" Oh, no, you've made her go back to wide-eyed, though she recovered more quickly this time. You continue on. "Because if you do, that would make a task of mine much easier."

(And less bloody. Less likely to instigate the very war you're trying to prevent.)

"I..." She takes a breath. "I've only begun learning them. I'm only really starting to understand the first two."

You frown. You're unwilling to admit that you have no idea _which_ two those are, but the truth is that Van uses them so rarely that the only one you know of is the one he used on you. "The one that induces sleep - do you think you can learn it within a month?"

She watches you, considering. "I think so. But only if I have a quiet place to study - and less of a workload."

"Done and done," you say. "Consider yourself to have free use of this office for the foreseeable future - " It's not like you use it much. " - and I'll see what strings I can pull on the rest."

You don't often pull strings for people. It makes it easier to call in favors when you do need them, and lowering the workload of one officer in the Intelligence Division shouldn't be hard. All you have to do is slip a few words to her direct superiors that you need her for a special investigation - not entirely untrue, even.

She seems surprised at how easily you agree, or maybe at the fact that you're smiling, satisfied, like you got the better end of the deal. (You did.) "What kind of task is it?" she asks, warily.

(Good. Suspicion will keep her alive when nothing else does.)

"Infiltration of a sensitive target," you say, falling into the jargon easily, saying everything and nothing all at once. "Beyond that, the mission is highly classified and comes direct from the Fon Master himself. Even if you agree, I can't tell you where we're going until we're underway, and what we're doing until we get there."

She nods. Understanding, if not acceptance. "Can you at least tell me - what is the Fon Master's intention with this assignment? What is _your_ intention?"

You smile. That, you can do. "To prolong the peace that exists now as long as possible."

(A year. Even if war threatens for the whole of it, if you can put it off a year, you will prove that the Score is imperfect, that it isn't infallible. A small and spiteful part of you would be satisfied with that. The rest of you realizes that prosperity for all is going to take a lot more work than that.)

Tear's face softens, just minutely, towards a smile. "Then I'll do it."

You give her a faint smile in return. "It's a pleasure to be working with you, Sergeant Grants."

\----

You pull strings. Your office winds up covered in notes, some glyphs, some music, some coded writings, and books. You compile a few of Tear's reports, to give yourself something to do and her a little less to be done. You absolutely do not smile at Ion when you pass him in the hallways. (You absolutely do, the one time you encounter him in the library with only Anise in tow, if only so he knows how things are going.) You arrange transportation, get information on guard shifts, and pour over the secret passages that only the Order is supposed to know about.

(Never hurts to have a backup plan, and an escape route. Or six.)

At the six week point, Tear declares success, and demonstrates on an unfortunate guard on his rounds who happens to walk past your office at the wrong time. You resist the urge to grin and tell her to plan for three weeks abroad, to bring civilian gear and arms, just in case. After a moment of consideration, you clarify - not Yulia City civilian gear. The whole point, after all, is not to stick out.

A week later you meet her at the port, and watch, amused, as she runs to the front of the ship to let the wind play with her hair. (It's strange to watch her, remember her age, and then remember that you're not much older.) After a while, you give her one of your extra hair ties and tell her the destination.

You've only been to Grand Chokmah once before, yourself, and that was on a guided mission that didn't exactly allow you to explore the place. You and Tear play the parts of tourists, now, at the same time as you put her through the quickest round of basic infiltration technique you've ever seen. That first week in the city is a whirlwind you don't remember much of.

The second mostly involves putting that quick training to the test and correcting where it's flawed, and the two of you wind up awake in the night as much as in the day, both throwing yourselves into bed without so much as taking your hair down.

(You don't want to admit it, but by the end of the first week, you like her. By the end of the second, you almost _trust_ her, and you certainly think her brother is a damn fool for neglecting her.)

The third week... Well, the third week is when you reveal the true nature of the mission, and the conversation goes something like this:

"Infiltrate the Imperial Palace? Are you _mad_?"

"Probably. I try to keep it off the record."

"This isn't the time to develop a sense of humor, _Asch_!"

(It's the only time the whole trip she uses your name so informally. It's also when you start considering how to get her transferred, or at least under your employ on the downlow. Mohs clearly isn't appreciating her, either.)

You give her one more chance to back out. Call off the mission and bail. Still muttering about your madness to herself, she shakes her head, and so you pull out your coded maps of the palace and the two of you get to planning.

\----

With the melody of Tear's hymn marking your passage, it's almost too easy. She sings; you slide up to the guards and lower them to the ground, gently, so that they don't injure themselves or, worse, wake up from the clatter of their own armor hitting the floor. Sometimes Tear has to help, when they're paired, supporting the weight of one man as best she can while singing so you can lower the other one.

Combined with the secret passages, it's more effective than a typical infiltration party by far. The last guard goes to the floor as quietly as the rest, and with a bit of lock-jiggling on your part, the way into the Emperor's rooms is clear.

(You try not to think about how easy it would have been to slit all their throats instead. Mission of peace, after all.)

"Stand watch?" you whisper to Tear, and she nods, taking up a position to the left of the door. You can see her fingering her sheathed knives - even with the lights out for the night, the number of windows in the Malkuth palace makes it easy to see, especially with a bright moon outside. It's nothing at all like Baticul, with that and the constant faint murmur of water. "Thanks."

The Emperor's personal room is a pigsty - not just messy, but literally meant. Five or six rappigs of various ages snooze around the room, the smallest tucked up under the sleeping man's arm in the bed. One chuffs sleepily at you as you pass, but otherwise nothing else stirs.

Or at least so you think. When you're within ten feet of the bed, you see a flash of steel - you throw yourself to the side, letting the dagger whizz by to embed itself on the furniture. It's significantly larger than one of Tear's knives.

You roll to the side, using a round farm animal for cover, and when you've got your eyes on him again, Malkuth's emperor has pulled a functional rapier from an ornamental sheath over the bed and is brandishing it in your direction. It would be significantly more threatening if he didn't still have the baby rappig held in his other arm, sleepily curled against his chest.

(Still, it's not bad form, especially for just getting out of bed. His stance is a little wide, though.)

You sigh, putting up your hands in a traditional show of harmlessness, and hope that Tear is smart enough to stay outside in spite of the brief commotion. "I'm just here to talk."

"Right," Peony replies, voice tense, the tip of his rapier quivering just a little. "And how many of my guards did you kill on your way in?"

"None; they're just asleep."

That, at least, gets you consideration. "And why would Kimlasca send someone in the middle of the night to talk to me? It's not like they've been returning my letters."

You grumble under your breath. Your hair's hidden under a cap; is your accent that obvious? "Daath, not Kimlasca."

(You file away the rest of what he said for later. Chances are, with how deeply entrenched Mohs is in your uncle's court, the letters aren't even reaching the right ears.)

"Same difference, at this point." His voice is bitter. "I'm not an idiot; I know the only thing Daath wants to do with my country is get me off the throne of it."

"That's Mohs," you correct. "Not the Fon Master."

"By all reports, Fon Master Ion isn't much more than a puppet," Peony says. He's watching you warily, but the point of his rapier has dropped and his stance is slack. Without taking his eyes off you, he steps backwards and settles the rappig on a corner of his bed. "Nothing against the kid. He's just too young."

You restrain a snort. Oh, if only he knew. Instead you say, "Reports don't tell you everything. Ion is the most frightening politician I've ever known. He plays the puppet. Why do you think I'm here, instead of a _letter_?"

"That depends a great deal on who you are," Peony answers, still not lowering the rapier. Instead of answering, you pull the cap off your hair, letting it fall free. If he has spies in Daath that are good enough to know about Ion's puppet act, then he'll know. You're the only redhead in the Order's upper ranks.

He squints in the darkness, then gives up and turns on a bedside lamp. "...Oh, hell."

You chuckle a little at the reaction. "Going to take me seriously now, Your Majesty?"

The rapier lowers. "Jade and I had a bet, you know," he says, still sounding a bit shellshocked. "On if you were Kimlascan or not. I owe him a hundred gald."

You chuckle again, patting the rappig in front of you idly as you get up. "Most people haven't heard enough nobles' accents to tell."

"I remember the Hod War. And there's been rumors about Duke Fabre stepping out for decades." Peony sets the rapier on his bed, still within easy reach, and sits on the edge. "You look like him."

You grimace. It's right and wrong all at the same time. "Don't remind me." Your accent slips out stronger on the words, too, damn it all.

At least he looks apologetic. "That bad, huh? Sorry. No wonder you went to Daath."

"I didn't have a lot of choice in the matter," you say simply, hoping that he'll let the matter drop. At least it gives you an easy segue. "Speaking of wars..."

"That's what all this is about, huh?" Peony gestures you at the desk chair, but there's a rappig curled up in it when you look, so you lean against his desk instead. "I wondered about some of those border incidents."

"Arranged by Mohs," you say, disgusted. "He wants another Hod War." You're intentionally specific, though you don't know if he'll catch on. Still, you imagine that he's at least _aware_ of the gap in the sea where Hod once was, even if the full implications of it have been kept hidden.

"That's what I figured. And unless things change, by this time next year, I won't have a choice." He sounds pained. "Half my court is already in favor. I guess I know who's paying them off, now."

You nod, thinking. "Which gives you all the more reason to reach out for an emissary - if your letters aren't getting through, the next step is to send someone in person." 

"If that's Ion's goal, why all the secrecy?" Peony rests one hand on his chin, watching you. His elbow is propped on the table with the lamp. "It's not like he can't contact me through more normal means."

"Politics on the Kimlascan end." You exhale hard. "Not all of Ingobert's court is happy with how deep he is in Mohs' pocket. They think Daath is manipulating them - which is true - so the idea can't _appear_ to come from us."

"Even if your faction has totally different goals from the Grand Maestro. Got it." Peony sighs. "I hate politics."

You chuckle. "Unfortunately, you don't really have a choice."

"I dunno, you seem pretty good at it. Can't I just hire you to do it?" 

"Sorry," you say, standing up straight away from the desk. If he's starting to joke around, the important part of the meeting is probably over. You've been in here a while and Tear is probably starting to get worried. "Someone else has first dibs."

He smiles. "Ion's lucky to have you. Don't worry; I'll get a message your way soon."

"I think I'm lucky to have him," you confess, and slip silently around the rappigs and out the door.

Tear is standing much where you left her, thankfully, though she spooks a little at your approach. She'd drawn one of her knives at some point, and puts it away hurriedly when she recognizes your face. "Are you alright? Earlier I heard - "

"Mission accomplished," you tell her, smirking. "Come on, let's get out of here."

She frowns, but she must figure that you wouldn't have taken so long if it was an assassination mission, so she just falls into step behind you. A quiet hymn, a secret passage, and the two of you are gone.

\----

It takes months to get things arranged on both ends. Ultimately, Ion's trip to Malkuth - and from there, overland to Kimlasca, through all the proper and official border checkpoints - will be just after the New Year. You can only hope that Kimlasca won't be too eager to send your replica off before he gets there.

Aside from that, you spend a surprising amount of time training Tear; even if the two of you have somewhat different loyalties, it's comfortable enough as an arrangement, and you can trust that she at least won't go telling Van anything. In fact, she's mostly interested in using those skills to tail her brother; she knows, as much as you do, that he's up to something.

For all that you and Tear put your heads together, you can't figure out _what_ Van is planning, except that it has something to do with whatever takes him in and out of Belkend's labs almost as regularly as he visits Baticul. You're betting fomicry, because of Dist and because of everything, but that's as far as you get. Since you keep the fomicry aspect hidden (more for Ion's sake than your own), Tear doesn't even get that far.

For the first time, you find yourself really thinking about leaving the Order, after everything is over. You don't think Special Operations would suffer, if you set Tear up as your successor.

(Of course, that's assuming the Order survives the storm that's coming. Whatever Van _is_ planning, you don't expect it to be small.)

Somehow, the day of Ion's departure comes all too soon. He's taking Anise, which he knows you disapprove of, but you don't really have any other place to put her, either. Unlike Tear, she doesn't take leave, no matter how much you strong-arm her. You can't blame her, now that you know the story, but you don't like it. At least Ion (and Jade Curtiss, because you know that's who Peony will send) will be able to keep an eye on her.

(You put Tear on leave two days prior and tell her to go explore the Outer Lands for herself. It's better that she isn't in Daath, or Yulia City, when Ion goes "missing." You wish you had that option for yourself.)

The night Ion leaves, you escort him down to the port yourself, just in case. If Anise has tipped her hand about the rendezvous point, you want him to have some muscle ready. You also can't miss the last chance to talk to him that you might have for a long time, if you're honest with yourself.

Even if it's mostly walking and trying to cram his original's history into his head.

"Remember, 'you' met Emperor Peony twice before, at your investiture and on the tenth anniversary of the Hod Treaty - "

"Asch, you're fretting," Ion says, walking beside you. You're intentionally keeping your pace slow for him, even though your instinct is to move as fast as you can. "I can handle Emperor Peony just fine."

"It's not Peony I'm worried about," you say. "His most likely choice of representative is _Jade Curtiss_. You know, the _inventor_ of fomicry?"

"...Ah," Ion says. He's only gotten a little more expressive in the year you've known him, but the look on his face is definitely a grimace. "All right, I suppose you have good reason to be worried."

You snort. "You're going to be on your own from here. It's not like I can go with you." To Malkuth, maybe, but not to Kimlasca. You can't show your face there. And exposing yourself to Jade is risky, when there's the chance he could run into your replica at the Kimlascan court. Anise is risky enough in that regard.

"I'm sure Mohs or Van will send a group after us," Ion says. "They can't afford to have the Fon Master go missing. Perhaps you could volunteer?"

A smirk works its way over your lips. "That seems like the _perfect_ mission for the Special Operations commander taken with the Fon Master's ideals. Good idea."

"Just keep an eye out for Cantabile," Ion advises. "She does take her job seriously, and she still thinks you're with Van's faction."

"Might be a good time to correct that, then," you say, thinking aloud. "Though it could be difficult if any of Van's people are along. I think Sync, at least, suspects who's responsible for getting her out of the line of fire."

Ion sighs. "It wouldn't surprise me."

The two of you lapse into silence as you approach the rendezvous point. Anise is hidden in the shadows there, shifting impatiently. In the distance, over the buildings, you can see the Malkuth landship that will be here and gone by morning.

"There you are!" she says upon seeing your shapes in the night, a little more loudly than you would like. It can't be helped; it's not like she was trained in covert operations.

(A good thing; if she had been, catching her spying would be more difficult.)

"Sorry, Anise," Ion says, his cheerful mask slipping into place. "Commander Asch wanted to be thorough in making sure we weren't followed."

Anise looks at you and hmphs. "Sure, whatever." She then _winks_ at you, as though you're in a conspiracy with her instead of Ion. "You can be kinda dense, Ion. I'm sure he just wanted to speak his heart in private~!"

Why is this your life? You glare a little and clear your throat. "He's all yours from here, Sergeant. _Try_ to be professional?"

"Of course!" she says, too cheerful for professional, and you just look at Ion briefly before shaking your head. 

"You're incorrigible," Ion says to her, before turning back to you and smiling. "We'd best be underway, then. I can't imagine the captain wants to wait much longer."

"Be safe," you find yourself saying, ignoring how Anise smirks like she's won the lottery at your words. "I mean it."

"You, too," Ion says, and then you're both turning away, you back to Daath, him towards the ship with Anise trotting after him. 

It doesn't hit you until you're halfway back to Daath that you're alone again. Ion and Tear are the only people you can really call allies ("friends" barely even enters your mind), and now you've sent them both away. Something in your chest rebels at the thought. 

You grit your teeth and sprint up Monument Hill, not slowing until the arches of the cathedral are back in sight, letting the slight burn in your muscles burn away the feeling. You can't afford to stop for emotions now. They can take care of themselves, and so can you.

The real work is just beginning.


End file.
